


Compulsory Behaviour

by asuralucier



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Lol What HR, M/M, Mating in Captivity, Season/Series 02, There is Something Wrong, Toxic Work Environment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:21:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24589753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: After their argument, Jon and Tim realise that there are more sinister powers at work in the Institute, and that Something really wants them to be friends.(Or: that Season 2 AU where Jon and Tim can’t leave the Magnus Institute because of reasons.)
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker
Comments: 13
Kudos: 135
Collections: Little Black Dress Exchange 2020





	Compulsory Behaviour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WolffyLuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/gifts).



> Many thanks to ictus for the beta as ever xx

Jon resolutely waited until he could no longer hear Tim in the hallway. After that, he turned his attention back to the statement at hand, preparing himself to read it. Then he turned on the tape recorder and settled in. The relief that usually hit him around this time in the process was slow in coming. 

There was a calm rhythm to dealing with a statement, because Jon knew exactly what to do. He’d start by finding it in its often incorrect place in the myriad of filing cabinets, recording it, and finally, putting it back in its rightful place once the recording was complete, making sure that it couldn’t be misplaced again. 

Given that Jon was not a confrontational person, he was only too eager to let work take over, let the strange aftertaste of Tim’s accusations filter away from his mind. 

“Statement of Aloysius Clare, regarding a dead tree in the yard of his family home in Wiltshire. Statement first given 8 November 1995. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist, The Magnus Institute, Lond—”

“What the _fuck_ did you do?” 

Jon’s head snapped up in alarm as the door to his tiny office swung open once more, revealing Tim, still angry, but several shades paler than Jon remembered. Tim was breathing harshly, his entire body shaking with effort, as if straining to get enough air into his lungs. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean what the hell did you do?” Tim glowered at him. “Don’t play dumb. Jon, it’s one thing that you fucking watch my house. It’s another thing that you—” Tim cut himself off, and drew in a deep breath. He appeared to be trying to calm himself down, which Jon appreciated. 

Still, there was no denying that Tim was still simmering from before—something Jon appreciated slightly less. 

Jon stared longingly at the statement of Aloysius Clare in his hands before giving in to a lost cause. He reached to turn off the tape and turned his attention back to Tim. 

“Tim, what are you even talking about?” 

Tim started to gesture expansively from his position in the doorway. It wasn’t until his wrist knocked against the rough wood of the door frame that he seemed to give up on his pantomime. He said, nodding towards the hallway, “Just, come with me, all right? Come see for yourself.” 

Jon wanted to say that he was busy, and that Tim could clearly see that he was busy, but then decided against it. He sighed, crossing his arms. 

“Fine, I will. But I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong.” Jon rose from his seat, at pains to give the impression that his chair had been comfortable. Tim probably knew that was bullshit. At the same time, Jon was good at sticking with his story, no matter how absurd. “Give me a chance to explain myself. I’m not crazy, you know.” 

Tim started to laugh, but didn’t, in the end. He simply said again, “Come with me.” 

Eventually, Jon found himself standing at the mouth of the Institute. The lobby, with its old paintings and faded Chesterfields, was empty except for Rose, who didn’t seem to be paying them any mind. She didn’t even look up as Tim stormed his way up to the wide, heavy doors. 

“Watch me, okay?” 

“Tim, what—”

Tim waved him off impatiently. “Just shut the fuck up and watch me. And maybe...maybe stand back a little.” 

Jon took a few steps back. He glanced at Rose, but she was deep conversation about some sort of rare periodical with someone or the other. Most importantly, she had her face turned away from them, and away from the door. 

Tim appeared to ready himself for the ordeal to come. He rubbed at his arms and then launched himself into a sprint. Jon watched him disappear through the doors with his arms stretched out in front of him. 

A moment later, Tim was blown back inside as if some great force had grabbed him at the back of the neck to yank him back into the lobby of the Institute. Jon witnessed this with his own eyes, not feeling even the slightest breeze. Jon reached for Tim on instinct, catching the other man’s head in his lap but not much else of him before he hit the ground. 

Tim said, wheezing, “Fuck. You see now?” He looked winded from blowback but more resigned than surprised at his ordeal, as if he was already prepared for it. 

“I—” 

“Stop it.” Tim shook his head with some force. “Let me spell it out for you, yeah? Jon, the Institute won’t let me leave. Now you’ve seen it with your own damn eyes. Paranoid as you are, boss, I thought it might be the best way to get it through your stupid head.” 

Tim’s skull felt weirdly like a dead weight in Jon’s hands, growing heavier by the second. Jon found it difficult to move his fingers, and harder still to move his tongue, although he was still marginally in control of both of those things, he thought. Finally, he managed, “That’s ridiculous.” 

“Yeah, no more ridiculous than the worms that tried to take us over, sure.” 

“I went home yesterday,” said Jon, gesturing, “So did you. The door’s right there. You can’t just…” 

Tim drew a deep breath and laughed. The sound was wholly unpleasant. It scraped Jon by the inside of his ribcage, intent on hollowing him out. “You know what? I’ve had such a weird day. I’m even going to ask how you know that I went home last night.” 

“You did just accuse me of watching your house.” 

Tim frowned. “Yeah, and I didn’t hear you deny it either.” 

Jon was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to dig his finger into the deep furrow between Tim’s eyebrows. He didn’t know what that would accomplish, and in the nick of time, he dropped his hand. “...Well, you also did accuse me of not allowing you to walk through a set of double doors. And we both know _that’s_ ridiculous. If you let me up, I’ll prove it.” 

The sooner Jon did, the sooner he could go back to work.

Slowly, Jon came to. There was an unnatural tightness that clamped around his head. Something that he wanted to call a headache, but then that didn’t seem quite right or honest. 

“—D’you reckon that he might have some sort of head injury? Head trauma? Should we be calling 999? Jon? Jon, you can hear me, right? Hello?” 

“Martin, that’s not how head trauma works. I’ve been at this at least twenty times, and I’m feeling just peachy. Pissed off, sure, but peachy.” 

“...Maybe the trauma hasn’t really set in yet. Maybe it’s latent, or whatever. Who knows with you?” 

“Thanks, Sasha. I could have really used your support, there.” 

“ _Guys_ , I really don’t think this is funny. He’s fainted!” 

It was too much going on at once. Jon tried to concentrate on doing just one thing, and then couldn’t decide between opening his mouth to tell _everyone_ (but especially Martin) to shut up so he could hear himself think, or to open his eyes to prove to everyone that he wasn’t, in fact, unconscious. What Jon did do in the end, was let out a piteous little whine that had immediate effect: opening his eyes was still too much work, but he was willing to bet that if he had, he would have awoken to three pairs of eyes staring at him in too-close proximity. 

Tim said, “Well, at least we know he’s alive. That’s—I guess that’s good.” 

Martin, exasperated: “Tim—” 

Sasha cut them both off at the pass. “Guys, this is hardly what Jon needs right now. All right?” 

Sasha would have made a great Head Archivist, Jon thought, and thought too, that he ought to tell her. 

But not now. 

When Jon could stand on his own two feet again, Tim dragged him not very kindly under his armpits to see Elias, who was in the middle of something. Elias didn’t look impressed as Tim practically stormed into his office using Jon as an unwitting, uncooperative battering ram. And once that was done, Tim deposited Jon into a chair opposite Elias’s desk. 

Jon tried to keep his eyes open. He was more or less conscious, but aware that he could be more awake and more helpful in whatever—this was. 

“Is there something the matter, Tim?” Elias asked, keeping one eye on his computer. 

“Jon and I can’t leave the Institute,” Tim said. He stood beside Jon’s chair, still near enough that Jon could feel him simmering, barely keeping it civil. “Was wondering if you knew something about that.” 

“I see.” Elias nodded. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. For all intents and purposes, he looked relaxed and not too bothered. Jon couldn’t put his finger on why exactly, but he wasn’t too surprised at Elias’s reaction, or lack thereof. 

After a moment or two, Elias seemed to remember himself, and he cleared his throat. “Neither of you can leave the Institute?” 

“Yeah.” Tim nodded. “Come on, at least pretend you’re concerned.” 

“I am concerned; certainly, make no mistake,” Elias echoed dutifully. He looked at Jon, and then Tim, then back again. “Are either of you injured?” 

“I have a concussion,” Jon said. “Maybe. I’m not sure. I’m a little nauseous. Maybe I do need medical attention. ” 

“I did say we should ring 999,” said Martin somewhere behind him, skulking near the entrance of Elias’s office. Sasha was there too, but she was doing a pretty good job of paying attention to her mobile instead of the scene playing out not two metres from her.

Elias looked past Jon’s shoulder at Martin, his gaze as steady as a sheet of glass, until Martin shrank accordingly and shut up. “But you aren’t injured, Jon. Perhaps a bit shook up? I can understand that.” 

Tim said, “So you’re...just going to ignore the fact that neither of us can _leave the Institute_.” 

“I’m not ignoring it in the least, Tim. Like I said, I am concerned.” Elias turned that dark, sticky gaze on Tim now. Despite himself, Jon was almost impressed by how well Tim managed to hold his own. His spine certainly looked like it wanted to buckle under the impossible weight. 

Tim said, “Right.” 

“Did something happen?” Elias asked, “Did you try to fire him, Jon?” 

“I thought about it,” Jon said, telling the truth. It didn’t occur to him to lie, and it was only later that he’d think it odd. “I didn’t exactly try. What’s that got to do with it?” 

“Perhaps nothing.” Elias shrugged. “What’s important now is that you’re not injured or incapacitated. Perhaps it’s best that the two of you have a rest. We can pick this up in the morning.” 

“Rest _where_ , exactly?” Tim glared around the room, seemingly unable to settle on one target on which to rest his anger. Finally, he seemed to give up and deflate. 

“There’s the back room,” Martin volunteered. “It’s actually pretty cosy, once you get over…” he trailed off. An awkward silence hung there in the meantime until Martin summoned the courage to start over. As if nothing was wrong. “Anyway, I can go get you guys some takeaway or something?” 

Elias said, “What a good idea.” 

Tim said, “Fuck’s sake.” 

Jon said nothing. He gathered himself up the best he could and stood up from the chair, not quite steady. Tim started too, and in the moment, it almost looked as if Tim wanted to reach out a hand and help. But in the end, Tim only stuck both hands in the pockets of his jeans, as if he was almost afraid of what his hands might do without his permission or knowledge. Jon took one step towards the door, and then another. 

“Where are you going, Jon?” Elias asked. 

Jon didn’t bother looking back. In his head, he was already busy trying to count the steps back to his own office. If he could make it back there, maybe everything would go back to normal. 

“Where else do you think? I’m going back to work.” 

Immediately, Jon felt much better with a statement to attend to. 

“I knew for certain that the tree was dead. It’d been done for as long as I’d lived in that house. Of course, I hadn’t lived in the house for some time, as I’d moved away for university, and afterwards, stayed in London for work. 

Still, I had the strangest, most certain feeling that the tree had come alive again since I’d moved back in to sort out my mother’s things—”

“So just business as usual for you, boss? You’re not even going to process how tremendously fucked up this is?” 

A familiar knot was forming in Jon’s gut. The contents of any given statement were sometimes hard to stomach, especially statements having to do with _meat_. While meat was nowhere to be found in Aloysius Clare’s account regarding a dead tree in Wiltshire, Jon still felt himself growing ill. A slow, completely manageable, incremental sickness that he was trying hard not to think about. 

So much for that. 

Jon drew in a breath and turned off the tape recorder. Tim was leaning against the doorframe again, just looking at him. 

“Tim, I’m in the middle of a statement.” 

“Great.” Tim snorted, raking a hand through his hair. “See, I always knew you were the diligent type. One day it’s going to come back and bite you in the arse.” 

“Or maybe it already has,” Jon said, mostly without thinking. But apparently, that was the right answer; the scowl on Tim’s face, also growing familiar, softened just a little. Instead of cowering from it, Jon felt brave enough to continue the conversation. He gestured. “Did you want something?” 

“Yeah,” Tim said. He shifted from his position from the door, and from this new angle, Jon could see that Tim was carrying a brown paper takeaway bag. “I’m starving. I figured you would be too. Tilting at windmills is hard work. Martin practically shoved this at me through the door. Like he’s scared of catching what we got.” 

A smirk tugged at Tim’s mouth, and Jon hated himself for the second of his life he’d wasted thinking that it was attractive. Tim snorted.“What are the odds that he doesn’t turn up to work tomorrow?” 

“I’ll eat later,” said Jon. Already, he could feel the bile of food he didn’t remember consuming rise up in his throat. “Martin always turns up to work.” 

“Poor sod,” Tim said, meaning the exact opposite. He shut the office door behind him and strode to the small, narrow table and plonked down the bag. On instinct, Jon reached to rescue the written statement of Aloysius Clare from excess oil, or whatever else that could have been dripping from the bag. “Eat now. It won’t taste good later.” 

Jon couldn’t help himself. “You almost sound like you want to have dinner with me.” 

“Yeah well, it’s either you. Or fucking Elias.” 

Jon opened his mouth to say that perhaps he shared Tim’s sentiment, but not quite like that. Then he decided against it. Jon wasn’t a particularly argumentative person either, and all the weirdness aside, he was happy enough to play at normal, for now. “What’s in there?” 

“Something vegan. Burgers, maybe? I think Martin’s going through a phase.” Tim peered inside the bag. “And, I think halloumi fries and what looks like a sad salad.” 

“Right. Halloumi’s not vegan.”

Tim stared at him for a moment. He seemed nearly impressed. “And here I was, thinking you didn’t get out much.” 

“Well you did say Martin was going through a phase.” 

Tim shrugged. “It’s not like you’re vegan. Or I am.” 

After that, Tim doled them out each a burger parcel and a portion of perhaps not-vegan halloumi fries. Jon tried one and thought it tasted more like tofu than anything else. Tim didn’t touch the salad and Jon didn’t exactly mind. 

They ate in sullen silence, even though that left Jon wondering why Tim was hankering for company. Still, Jon was no stranger to odd silences overstretching like cling film, and left that well alone. 

A sudden knock on the door nearly caused Jon to fall out of his chair. Tim too, although he hid it better, marginally. 

Elias poked his head inside the door and gave a cursory look around. His expression was, from Jon’s perspective, a bit of a mixed bag, almost as if he wasn’t quite sure what to expect, or wasn’t sure how to take in the scene in front of him. 

What Elias said was, “Glad you’ve gotten something to eat. I think I’m off for the night.” 

Jon opened his mouth to say something, but felt a sharp kick to his ankle under the table. 

Elias left, not waiting for an answer. But he didn’t close the door, and Tim stood to knock it shut with his shoulder before slumping down in his seat again. He expelled a noisy breath. “Fuck.” 

“What was that for?” 

“I don’t know,” Tim sighed. “I just felt like it. Maybe I didn’t want him creeping around us like some sort of noncy pervert. Not that you’d mind that sort of thing.” 

“I’m not—” 

“I’m joking,” Tim said flatly, although it sounded up for grabs. He took care to wipe his hands on a serviette before resting his cheek in the palm of his hand. “I know you’re just a paranoid arsehole. Anyway. I’ll leave you to it.” He stood, nodding to the statement sitting neatly in Jon’s lap. “What’s this one about, anyway?” 

“A dead tree suddenly coming back to life,” Jon said, resigned. “Possibly with murderous intent.” 

“Sounds thrilling,” Tim muttered faintly. “We’re really not talking about it?”

“We could,” Jon said, eyes squeezed shut. When he opened them a moment later, nothing had changed. He was still sat in an uncomfortable chair, in the direct line of Tim’s equally uncomfortable stare. “Don’t suppose you know anyone in the Wiltshire Police we could call up at this hour?” 

“Actually.” Tim started and stopped again. “Never mind. I’m going.” 

“I forgot your toothpaste,” said Martin, almost sheepishly. “I’ll go buy some after work.” 

Jon was so intent on staring at the contents of the faded duffel Martin had handed him that it took him a moment to respond. All things considered, Jon hadn’t wanted to give Martin the keys to his flat, but had needed to, in the end. The list of candidates were slim to none, and Jon had to admit, despite himself, that Martin had done a good job anticipating what he might need while he was stuck at the Institute. He’d done a good job too, of stuffing an inordinate amount of clothes, toiletries (minus toothpaste), and other things into the duffel. The more Jon thought about it, the more disturbed he became at the thought of Martin spending time alone in his flat. 

“It’s...fine really, I’m sure there’s toothpaste somewhere.” 

“I guess you can borrow some from Tim,” Martin said brightly. “Sasha packed his things and I can’t imagine her forgetting toothpaste.” 

Jon couldn’t either. 

Tim gurgled and spit into the sink. A moment later, he appeared to notice Jon standing in the doorway, and he glared at Jon through the small mirror mounted on the wall. The bathroom next to the back room was small and barely functional. It had a toilet, shower cubicle, and a sink, all squeezed in without much thought towards spatial awareness.

“Fucking hell, Jon. You’re as bad as Elias.” 

“Erm, sorry,” Jon said, letting his eyes slide onto the floor. It was difficult to describe how he was feeling right at this very moment. What was perhaps more disturbing, was that Jon couldn’t exactly fault Tim’s assessment. 

Tim wasn’t wearing a shirt and he looked more ticked off than embarrassed. Not that Tim had any cause to be embarrassed, not even with stubborn, ugly scars slashed across his skin. A constant reminder of how his life had changed.

“Well, what the hell do you want?” 

“Well, I.” Jon cleared his throat. “...Could I borrow some toothpaste?” 

Tim looked like he wanted to laugh, but he was also trying to hold on to some of the anger that was so familiar to Jon nowadays. Jon was even beginning to look forward to seeing it twist and turn on Tim’s body, but mostly on his face. Jon didn’t even need to be here right at this moment, but he suddenly felt the urge, a compulsion to be near Tim Stoker’s anger and he couldn’t explain why.

Finally, Tim said, “Martin packs you for infinite exile, and he forgets _toothpaste_.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Yeah, funny that.” 

“Not really,” Tim murmured. “Yes, you can borrow some toothpaste. Now?” 

“No, not really.” Jon had to agree, and shook his head. “I mean, not now.” 

Tim picked up the small tube of toothpaste and weighed it in his palm. He looked like he was contemplating how the tube might land if he lobbed it at Jon’s head in such close quarters. Tim raised his arm, and Jon’s fight or flight response kicked in, though the response didn’t quite seem to reach his legs. 

Then Tim let the toothpaste drop, and he didn’t seem to notice until the tube hit the linoleum tiles and made a dull thudding sound. Neither did Jon, sort of. 

Jon bent and picked up the toothpaste, he held it out nervously, almost like he was brandishing a weapon. He apparently looked ridiculous enough that Tim couldn’t help the short, surprising laugh that left his mouth. 

But contrary to that strange sound, what came out of Tim’s mouth was, finally: “I feel a bit shit.” 

Jon had to admit, Tim looked it too, once he knew to look for it. Gingerly, he put down Tim’s toothpaste on the shelf. Mindful that he might lose control of his limbs at any second, Jon reached out to grasp Tim by the shoulder. “Maybe you should—” he broke off, fully intending to suggest that Tim sit down, only to realise that there was nowhere to sit. The toilet didn’t seem like a fit option, somehow. 

“Perhaps you should lie down.” 

“Maybe.” Tim’s weight was heavy and human against him, and Jon adjusted slightly so that he would be prepared for Tim falling over. Jon was aware of how his fingers had brushed by a scar not entirely by accident, and he was even more mindful of how badly Tim must be feeling if he couldn’t even muster up a quip about workplace (sexual) harassment. 

It’d been some time since Jon had set foot in the back room. He’d peeked in once or twice since Martin had been staying here, and the room appeared to have changed from one character to the next between Martin and Tim—not that there was much to change. 

The back room was much like the bathroom, cramped and nearly claustrophobic. It’d barely had enough room for a single bed, half a stove top and a wide metal sink, slightly out of sync with the rest of its cramped surroundings. Above the sink were some haphazard shelves sticking out from the ways, no doubt hammered in without any regard for health and safety. 

Jon just about managed to steer Tim clear of his suitcase, with rumpled clothes and some kind of gaming device with accompanying cartridges spilling out of it. 

“You left the door open,” Tim said, sounding somewhere between anxious and annoyed. And then suddenly, he was too tired to commit to either and seemed to go a bit boneless once he’d reached the bed. “You always do that.” 

“Do I?” The role of caretaker didn’t come naturally to Jon. He tried to assure himself that this was why he felt out of sorts. Things would right themselves again, more or less, once he got up and left.

“Yeah.” Tim rolled his eyes up to look at him. “Don’t you notice?” 

“I’ll close the door on my way out.” Jon started to stand. “I don’t always notice.” Or, he tried not to. 

“Jon.” 

“What? I’ve got to go back to work. So long as you’re not…” _dead_ was the word that Jon almost used, but that seemed off-colour given the circumstances. 

Tim adjusted himself slightly so he could peer at his watch. “It’s nearly eight. Everyone’s probably left by now. It’s not like someone’s got a knife to your throat about those fucking statements.”

Come to think of it, Jon was going to shut the door. He stepped neatly over Tim’s suitcase again and made sure the door clicked neatly shut. He stood against the door jamb, relieved that it dug into his spine and stayed in place. He let out a breath he almost wasn’t aware of holding. “Maybe not a knife, but I sometimes turn, and I think—anyway, the statements help me forget. They need to be done. It’s my job.” 

“You sometimes turn, and think...what, Jon?” 

Jon swallowed. “That someone’s, _something_ is watching me. Especially, it’s watching me with you. And. Maybe it’s not too happy that we…” 

“Hate each other’s guts?” Tim supplied hopefully. 

Jon winced. He was always the first to put his hand up whenever someone had something to say about difficult colleagues, but this was too far, he thought. “I don’t hate your guts, Tim. I—I can explain.” No, he couldn’t really, but Jon was suddenly hit with the urge to try, something else he couldn’t quite explain, either. 

“This ought to be good,” Tim said, leaning himself up on one elbow, in a show of exaggerated attention. “Spill it, boss. If you can.” 

Jon leaned harder against the door jamb and used the dull, but consistent pain to help him focus. Maybe Tim had a point that first time, that what they had was catching; Jon was starting to feel dizzy. Words crowded in his mouth, each seemingly jostling for their rightful place. 

Before they did though, Jon opened his mouth and words spilled out nearly without his permission: “I thought you might have been the one watching me. That you being out to lunch when Prentiss hit the Archives wasn’t exactly an...accident. You should have _died_. You—” Here, Jon stopped to catch his breath, and he had real trouble forcing air into his lungs. “You can’t blame me for not trusting you. But I’m, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say half of that. I’m not sure why I did.” 

Tim regarded him with a bright, angry stare, the heat of it making Jon want to wither and hide even from across the room. “Maybe we should have rang 999. Had you fucking _sectioned_. I’m sorry I _didn’t die_. What the _fuck_?” 

“I said I—” 

Tim sprang up from the bed, most of his prior discomfort lost to his anger again. In a couple of strides he had Jon by the collar, pressed him up against the door and twisted his grip. 

“You thought it before you said it. Just how _stupid_ do you think I am? Fuck you.” 

“If you’d like. Think of it like a challenge.” Jon managed, somehow. He definitely didn’t think that before he said it. He probably said it for shock value. 

But it was also those words that took Jon’s attention away from the vise of Tim’s fingers, which had loosened ever so slightly. Without worrying about his next breath, Jon noticed Tim’s thigh pressed snugly between his legs, barring him from any movement. 

In slow motion, Tim’s fingers moved to grab Jon by his jaw, still not a gentle touch by any means. 

Suddenly, the door rattled behind them, making both of them jump. 

“Jon? Tim?” 

Martin. Of course. Jon had half expected Elias, but wasn’t sure if this was better or worse. Martin’s face appeared in the narrow sliver. As usual, he looked concerned. 

Jon cleared his throat and tried his best to adjust his collar. “Martin, why are you still here?” 

“Oh, erm. I was just leaving. Elias shoved some files at me as he was going out the door and he wanted them sorted for tomorrow, so I, erm.” 

Jon heard Tim expel a soft breath somewhere behind him. It made Jon feel better that he wasn’t the only one who was relieved, that Elias had left the building. Martin peered closer into the sliver, close enough that Jon was inordinately aware of the whites of Martin’s eyes and its surrounding blood vessels. 

Martin soldiered on. “Is Tim—”

“Not dead yet. No thanks to some people.” Tim stepped up behind Jon, and Jon felt the weight of Tim’s chin digging unkindly into his shoulder. “What? Aren’t you afraid you’re going to get got too, if you stay late?” 

“I—” Martin stepped back. “I just heard yelling, and I thought…” 

“Things are _fine_ ,” Jon said, with more emphasis than he’d probably meant to. “But Tim’s probably right. You should get going.” 

Tim snorted, still right near Jon’s ear and even though the sound itself was unpleasant, Tim’s breath was warm and his sudden exhale left a strange tingle down Jon’s spine that Jon had to work hard to ignore. Tim said, gesturing, “Yes, shoo! Before the thing decides it wants to watch a threesome instead.” 

Martin blinks, several beats behind schedule. “Thr—what thing?” 

“Never mind,” Jon says, finally mustering enough energy to dislodge Tim from his shoulder. Or, at least, he tried to. “Just go, all right?” 

“But, Jon—” 

Tim reached past him and shut the door, damning the rest of Martin’s sentence to a mumbled blur on the other side of the door. 

As if he was stuck in an out of body experience and only able to watch, Jon watched as Tim’s hand left the door jamb and returned to Jon’s hip, pulling with clever, no doubt practiced fingers until he untucked Jon’s shirt. After that, Tim paused, as if he was waiting for something. Permission, maybe? But from whom, Jon couldn’t say. 

“What...are you doing?” 

Given the circumstances, Jon wasn’t exactly expecting an answer. But he also wasn’t expecting Tim to step back from him, either, to remind him so suddenly of their proximity or indeed, lack thereof. 

“D’you reckon he’s gone?” Tim nodded towards the door. 

“Who—Martin? Possibly.” Jon’s throat felt dry, and speaking suddenly took more effort than he’d ever remembered. The cadence of his speech was unnatural, but not quite strange. “I’ve got...I was hoping to finish this statement before—” Jon broke off again. He was suddenly at a loss at how to conclude that sentence. On the one hand, _going to bed_ felt too intimate, and on the other hand, he hadn’t really been going to bed. 

“You know, before I turn in.” 

“Yeah of course.” Tim shrugged, as if this hardly mattered to him. His eyes slid away from Jon to focus on his suitcase instead. He seemed to make a decision and finally bent to pick up the handheld along with a cartridge. Despite himself, Jon’s gaze followed the inviting bend of his spine, remembering how just a minute before, Tim’s body had been pressed against his. Jon came to again when Tim said, “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a GameBoy.” 

Jon was all too glad to focus his attention on the device—the GameBoy. “I have. I’m not that much of a troglodyte.” 

Tim just gave him a look. “Could’ve fooled me. Don’t you have work to do? Statement to finish?” 

Jon left the room, almost surprised that he was being let off so easily, so to speak. The hallway was empty, with Martin nowhere in sight, but Jon still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching. 

“Oh, Jon, come in. Have a seat.” Elias waved him inside. He was dressed to brave the biting London cold. “I was thinking of going to find you before I left. This saves me the trouble, thank you.” 

Jon started to say that he had a reason for dropping by, but then he couldn’t remember what it was. He said instead, “Oh.” 

Elias didn’t question him any further. “A group from Oxford wrapped up their project today. They gave me a bottle of Chateau Margaux as a thank you. Apparently the Institute’s libraries were a godsend. Really propelled their research in the right direction.” 

“That sounds expensive,” Jon hedged; part of him wondered what’d come next. In his own estimation, he didn’t like good wine enough for Elias to make it into a sticking point. As one point among many, fine wine wasn’t a hobby Jon could afford to keep. After thinking on it, Jon decided to play it safe, thereby choosing the blandest response he could think of. “I hope you enjoy it.”

“I don’t really drink red nowadays. I thought I’d leave it for you and Tim. For all your trouble.” Elias stooped and then straightened up again. He was holding a sleek black bag, which he placed on his desk with exaggerated care. “I know it must be difficult, all this. But I really do appreciate all your hard work.” 

“I’m sure you do,” Jon said, unable to keep the irony out of his voice. He had a feeling that Elias was lying, but couldn’t quite find the words to say so. 

“I’m glad that you’ve at least seen fit to share some toothpaste without squabbling like unreasonable children.” Elias shrugged. “Maybe there’s hope for you, after all.” 

“How do you know that we—” Jon cut himself off. “What do you mean by that?” 

Elias fixed him with a long look. “What do you think I mean, Jon?” 

“I—” Jon thought he knew the answer, but then it was gone again. But he was then overcome by an urge to say something regardless. “Tim thinks I don’t trust him.” 

“Oh?” Elias’s voice was pitched to affect concern, but something about it just made Jon shudder. “Would you like to hear my theory on trust? Perhaps something in it may help you—ah, refocus your perspective.”

It didn’t appear to be a question. Jon crossed his arms, for he was suddenly cold. 

Elias kept speaking, as if he was unaffected by this change; it was doubtful that he’d even noticed. “For one thing, trust is good for morale. It makes us all feel safe, doesn’t it? Like someone’s watching out for us. If you ask me, I think Tim might be feeling very...alone, without your trust.” 

Jon couldn’t help it. “Is this why we don’t have an HR department?” 

“I’m sorry?” 

Jon cleared his throat and said, “Human resources. Most workplaces have them.”

“Human _resources_ , of course. I always much prefer it when the left hand knows what the right hand is doing. I’m sure you’d agree.” Then Elias glanced meaningfully at the bag. 

“Would you like this or not? Otherwise, I’ll send it home with Martin.” 

“Elias gave us some wine,” Jon said, standing outside of the back room. He had the bottle in hand, and figured that perhaps it was better to cut to the chase given everything that’d happened. It was better to speak as himself while he still could. 

Jon heard some shuffling behind the door before it opened, revealing Tim in some sort of a band t-shirt and loose fitting cotton trousers. He gave Jon and the bottle a sour, but mildly interested look. 

Finally, Tim said, “Why?” 

“Would you rather he’d sent it home with Martin?” 

“Maybe not.” Tim held out his hand. “Let’s see it, then.” 

Jon handed it over without another word. Of all the things he might have said about Tim Stoker, Jon couldn’t have pegged him as a wine aficionado. But when Tim looked up again, he appeared begrudgingly impressed. “This is a Chateau Margaux. It’s probably a few hundred quid.” 

“Elias said.” Jon shrugged. “He also said he didn’t drink red.” 

“I hope you called him out on his bullshit,” Tim said, lifting one side of his mouth. “Because it is bullshit.”

“I wanted to,” Jon said. “But I…” 

“Couldn’t?” 

Jon nodded the affirmative. “I did get a good bit in about us not having a human resources department. I don’t understand.”

“Thought you ought to be used to that by now,” Tim snorted, but for once, the sentiment didn’t seem entirely unfriendly. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was being stuck inside for nearly about three days, even though it felt more like two weeks. “How’d he take the suggestion?”

“He didn’t.” 

That seemed to put Jon back in Tim’s good graces; at the very least, it meant that Tim stepped back and gestured. “Anyway, don’t just stand there like some sort of mong. Close the door behind you.” 

Jon enjoyed wine, but only in accordance to his meagre Archivist salary. Jon’s idea of a good red was when Campo Viejo went on offer for six pounds. He felt out of his depth with the Chateau Margaux in his possession, possibly exactly as Elias had intended. Although Jon knew he had no way of knowing that for certain, he knew it anyway. 

Still, he was happy enough for Tim to take the lead. Tim fetched a corkscrew and two glasses from the kitchenette before heading back to the bed, where he sat before handing over the glasses to Jon.

“You don’t have to look so surprised, boss,” Tim said. He stabbed the pointed end of the corkscrew into the mouth of the bottle and worked as he spoke, anchoring the bottle securely between his knees. 

The sudden pop of the cork almost made him jump, and Jon had to gather himself again. “Sorry, what?” 

“I mean,” Tim said, dragging each word out deliberately, as if he thought Jon was thick. (Not that this was news.) “I used to work in the wine cellar at Trinity. It was a way to pass the time. And to pilfer a bottle here and there. I’m surprised you don’t already know that about me.” 

“There’s a lot I don’t know about you.” Jon thought he meant it, too. It wasn’t as if he was deluded about the state of things _vis-à-vis_ Timothy Stoker. Just for a lark, he added, “You could tell me, save me from getting the wrong idea.”

“Fuck you,” Tim said, though again, it wasn’t unfriendly. Maybe this was it: their dislike of each other was finally finding its own sort of sense. He held out a hand for Jon’s glass, and Jon handed it over.

It nearly appeared as though his actions were thoroughly disconnected from the words that were still leaving his mouth. After handing Jon back his glass, Tim set about pouring his own. “Not the really expensive ones, mind, just the middling ones. The ones that no one would miss. I had a nickname, sounds stupid now that I think about it, the Picaro from Bordeaux. I don’t even speak French. I opted for German in school. I thought the teacher was fit back in the—” 

“ _Tim_ ,” Jon said, but he didn’t dare reach out to touch him. “Wake up.” 

That seemed to snap Tim out of it, and he looked at the glass of red wine cradled in his hands and made a face at it. 

Tim breathed in noisily, and, after staring at his glass for a moment longer, seemed to opt for _carpe diem_ and treated himself to a swallow of wine. But then his expression seemed to sour again, and he reached to put down the glass on the floor. 

“What the hell just happened?” 

Jon cleared his throat, tried a bit of the wine, and found that he couldn’t sit still. He got up and checked the door, making sure it was indeed shut, but not before taking a peek out in the corridor. 

Thankfully, it was empty. There was no reason for it not to be. 

Jon shut the door again. 

Behind him, Tim said, “...I didn’t want you to know that.” 

“Know what?” Jon turned to look at him.

“I don’t know, Jon. You tell me.” Tim expelled a deflated sigh as he readjusted his position on the bed. He stretched out on the mattress, careful to balance the glass of wine on his stomach. “Where I went to school, my degree, the fact that my house is a freehold but only because of a freak accident. Seeing as how you’ve taken up stalking as a fucking hobby.” 

“What freak accident?” Jon left his post by the door and came to stand instead by the bed. He was conscious not to loom over Tim, too much. “There’s a lot I don’t know, like I said. I didn’t know about the German, or the freehold, or the nickname.” In the end, Jon decided to make a run for it: “The way I understand it, stalking takes up time. Time that I don’t have. Especially since I’m bad at it.”

An incredulous sound left Tim’s throat, and came out in the end like a laugh. “Wow.”

“I am,” Jon admitted.

“I’m not disputing that. But,” Tim said, setting his jaw stubbornly as he recovered, “that’s all you’re getting out of me, boss. Even if it kills me.” 

Jon winced. “Don’t say that.” 

“Why?” Tim’s mouth twisted into an odd, but still undeniably unpleasant shape. “Certainly solve all your problems if I were, right? If I died with the million worms that swarmed this place. If you think about it, this all saves you the trouble of catching me out. Fucking hell, you even _said_ so.” 

Jon reached to pluck Tim’s glass out of his hands, with Tim offering only nominal resistance. This surprised Jon, and then, in the next second, it didn’t. He didn’t want to think about why. He drew in a long breath, and then he let it out. 

“That shouldn’t have come out the way it did. I’m sorry. I was just...on edge. I do trust you. I just.” 

Tim shook his head. “That’s not good enough. Okay, even—especially since you’re shit at stalking.” 

Jon shrugged hopelessly. “Well. I.” 

So instead, Jon stopped thinking and leaned over Tim on the bed, so he could stare down at him. Tim stared right back at him, his eyes bright with fresh anger, and for all intents and purposes, he looked comfortable even as his breathing was up. Jon put a hand on his taut, flat stomach and thought about how much Tim must miss the gym. He slid his hand under Tim’s t-shirt and felt the uneven bumps of his scars. 

Now, there was an uneven hitch in Tim’s breathing, but he still didn’t move. He said, “What are you doing?” 

“I don’t know yet. Do you mind?” Somehow, that seemed important.

Tim reached up and pressed his thumb by Jon’s mouth, and to his credit, Jon didn’t completely freeze up. “I don’t think so.” 

But then Tim stretched out his other hand to grip Jon by his hip, and with another practiced motion, managed to manoeuvre Jon from his sitting position so that Jon was now the one pinned flat on the bed on his back. 

Tim grinned. “Now, I really don’t mind.” 

Jon swallowed thickly. “What are you doing?” He was for the moment, dressed, but under Tim’s searching gaze, he felt as if he might as well be naked. 

Jon stretched up a hand, completely intent on batting Tim away as the other man leaned in closer and closer, but Tim caught it before Jon could reach his target. With an agonising slowness, Tim brought one of Jon’s fingers to his mouth and let it rest against his lips, before sucking it down gently until Jon felt Tim’s teeth scrape just as lightly by the edge of his knuckle. 

When Tim drew back it was just as slow, his tongue curling around Jon’s finger until it slipped free from his mouth. He was still so close that Jon could feel the warmth of Tim’s breath, like a second layer of skin on top of his own. 

“You started it, boss.” 

“I did,” Jon had to admit with a little sigh. Tim took that as an invitation and leaned in to kiss him, probably more gently than Jon deserved, flicking his tongue almost teasingly against Jon’s teeth until he opened his mouth properly. From an outsider’s point of view, it probably looked like they were making up very tenderly. Learning to trust each other again. “This is probably something else I’m not too good at,.” Jon said once they’d parted. 

“Yeah.” Tim’s hand on Jon’s hip squeezed meaningfully and Jon followed the gesture, arching up against Tim’s thigh. “I figured that.” His mouth left Jon’s to kiss a trail down his throat, lingering against the bump of his Adam’s apple for just a moment.

When Jon’s breathing caught, he felt Tim smile against his skin. “But don’t worry, Jon. We can still put on a great show, trust me.” 

Jon was suddenly filled with an overwhelming urge to check the door again for something lurking outside in the corridor. 

He quelled that urge the best he could, mostly by scrambling to pull Tim’s t-shirt over his head, with such vigour that Tim was almost tangled up in the fabric before he got rid of the shirt himself, tossing it onto the floor. Jon almost expected to hear the toppling of a wine glass, but then, didn’t. 

The whole charade was impressive enough that Jon didn’t even mind paying him a compliment. “Nice.” 

Tim smirked, stretching up his arms, as if inviting Jon (and whatever) to look at his body. “You say that like you’re surprised.” 

Jon shrugged. “I guess I’m not really.” Come to think of it. 

Tim peered down at him now, something like concern flickering in his eyes just about. He touched Jon’s mouth again and as a reflex that he was quickly learning, Jon kissed the tips of Tim’s fingers before opening up to take the fingers into his mouth. Though Tim was quicker than he was, and withdrew his hand, but not before he tugged lightly at Jon’s bottom lip. 

“...All right?” 

“Yes, I erm,” Jon drew a deep breath and tried to distract himself again, mostly by running his hands along the lines of Tim’s scars. “Was just thinking. About how I don’t.” 

Tim laughed, and shifted himself slightly above Jon so that he was straddling him more comfortably. “You were thinking about how you don’t think. What a fucking surprise. Well, then don’t think. It probably prefers that you don’t.” 

“That’s not what I mean,” Jon said, and the rest of his sentence was cut off by Tim’s mouth covering his own. And despite himself, he welcomed the warmth of Tim’s tongue and felt himself relaxing into it, feeling the same sort of warmth winding down towards his groin and felt his heartbeat quicken with the rhythm.

“Don’t really what, then?” Tim murmured, as his hands pressed Jon firmly into the mattress, fingers trailing up Jon’s ribs, marking territory.

“Don’t really…” Jon grabbed a fistful of Tim’s hair so he could look him in the eye. It suddenly didn’t seem the time to launch into a detailed explanation, even though Jon couldn’t exactly say why. “Don’t know. Sometimes it takes me a bit, erm. Some—time. With...” With a free hand, he tried to gesture towards his groin. 

Tim leaned forward to kiss him again rather than answer. Jon had the distinct feeling that if Tim said anything, it’d quickly give away to laughter, so he was happy enough to go along. While Jon had told nothing but the truth, and knew it to be the truth, Tim’s mouth, warm and inviting over his, had a funny way of skewing Jon’s perspective. Jon opened his mouth to let Tim lick across his teeth and he tightened his grip on the back of Tim’s neck to keep him in place and close.

They came up for air, and Tim’s other hand was skimming along the waistband of Jon’s pants, having already undone his fly. Tim seemed content to wait until Jon was watching him again, before he spit into his palm. He snuck his hand into Jon’s pants and wrapped a hand around Jon’s dick, not hurrying him, just holding him. Jon felt all the air leave his lungs at once, already feeling undone by such a simple touch. He let his eyes fall closed in spite of himself as Tim began to gently squeeze him, slowly coaxing him into full hardness. 

“Good thing for you, boss, I like a challenge.” Tim slid his grip slowly up Jon’s erection, letting Jon’s hips push up against him. “We’ve got time, Jon. Don’t you ever fucking stop talking?” 

“Sometimes?” Jon managed, not completely able to swallow a moan despite himself. “You did say you liked a challenge.” 

In the morning, Tim sucked him off nice and slow, almost in celebration, when they found themselves oddly alone. By way of an unspoken truce so formed by fellatio and something else, Jon and Tim left the back room still looking a bit fucked, hoping to prove a point to exactly nobody. By the time they got to the Institute lobby, there was no one there, save for Rose so early in the morning, but she never paid them any mind. 

Jon held his breath as he walked through the doors, steeling himself for an attack. None came, and the reliable cacophony of the city suddenly sang around him. Jon wanted to block his ears with his hands—anything to ward out the noise—but forced himself to bear it. 

It felt as though Jon finally had a choice. 

Elias said, “Well. This is a surprise.” He’d seemingly appeared out of nowhere, but even _in media res_ he appeared to be full of purpose, heading into the Institute. 

Jon bit back a response, but Tim said, without missing a beat. “I’m sure it is. Jon and I are taking the rest of the day off.” He added, the contempt in his voice barely kept at bay, “If it’s all right with you, Elias. This place doesn’t even pay overtime. I’m tired of all this compulsory bullshit.” 

Elias gave them both a searching look and the intensity of it, Jon thought, almost threatened to tear off his skin, leaving only weak-willed flesh and bone in its stead. 

“I don’t think I appreciate your tone, Tim,” Elias said. “But yes, that’s all right with me. I hope you both get a chance to relax. Please excuse me.” 

Jon was determined not to look at Elias as the man went through the heavy doors of the Institute. Jon was careful not to look at Tim, either. 

Things were far from all right, but Jon was going to take one step in front of the other and actually enjoy the thick stink of London traffic. He was glad to inhale it, like the fresh scent of a hard-won paradise. Jon could hear Tim moving behind him, and thought that Tim was going to do the same.


End file.
